


If You Take My Hand

by Leela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Older Woman/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:58:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5172077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not something Melissa has thought about before, not consciously at least, not in daylight, but it's not a surprise either. It's also nothing right now, nothing that would come between them, nothing that would cause any problems, unless she says, "Yes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Take My Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verucasalt123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/gifts).



> Dear verucasalt123, there were lots of temptations in your sign-up, but I went with your "super #1 favorite". I hope this story makes you happy and meets your needs for this super rare pairing.
> 
> Many thanks to E for her encouragement and fast beta. She always manages to make my words better than I imagined.

**1.**

Melissa can't imagine leaving Beacon Hills. She's held here by her son and granddaughter, Emily, by the pack's need for someone, anyone, except Deaton who knows how to take care of them in the rare times when their own healing doesn't work, and a thousand other reasons — excuses — small and large. That doesn't mean she isn't bored half the time and lonely most of the rest of the time. 

Scott wants her to get together with John Stilinski, his not-quite-father by proxy, but... just no. He's too safe, too normal. She picked Rafe for a reason and, despite the clusterfuck he made of their lives after Scott was born, she doesn't regret a moment of the crazy rollercoaster they rode before she got pregnant. Then there was Peter Hale, another asshole, who clawed his way into her life and stayed for far longer than they ever let Scott know. 

That was years ago, though. Rafe's given up on whatever he wanted to prove in Beacon Hills, running back to the big city and a woman half his age. Peter's long been lost into his own private hell. And Melissa's even more alone than ever, now that Scott's married and has his own house and family.

"You don't have to be alone," she whispers to herself, but she doesn't listen anymore than she did any other time. She sighs and gets out of her car, settling a messenger bag on her shoulder.

The sign for Jungle flashes bright and bold, lighting up the night around her. The earth seems to throb with the beat, vibrating up her spine. She can hear conversation and laughter coming from the inside the club, the people in line waiting to get in, and the alleys on either side. It's become a familiar world over the past year or so, one that she's welcome to visit but not where she can stay.

A couple of women call out to her as she walks down the line. A hand touches her arm. A soft voice makes an offer that she doesn't bother refusing. 

"Hey, Mel," the bouncer, Chuck, greets her with a smile. "Thanks for coming so quickly. Phoenix is waiting for you in the dressing room. One of the new girls managed to fall off her heels and not into the waiting arms down below." 

There are groans and complaints as he lets her through the velvet rope barrier and into the club, but they soon vanish beneath the cacophony when she gets inside. The music is louder. The vibrations shake her down to the core and her hips swing to the beat with every step. The air is sharp with alcohol and drugs. 

She trades nods with the few people she knows and turns down a couple of invites as she skirts the dance floor and heads for the back rooms. 

The noise is pushed into the background as soon as the door closes behind her, almost making her feel deaf for an instant. Then Phoenix pops her head out of the door on the left. 

"There you are," Phoenix says, curling her fingers in a come-hither motion. "Honestly, I don't know what we'd do without you, darling." 

"You'd end up in the ER at BHH," Melissa says, even though she knows that's probably not true. Most of the people who work here have no medical insurance and no way to pay the hospital bills. 

"Oh hush, girl." Phoenix pulls Melissa into a quick hug and gives her a feather-light kiss that tickles her cheek. "Don't you argue with me. You're a godsend to this community, and you should know it."

Shrugging off the compliment, Melissa manages a half-smile and says, "I hear someone had a fall."

"Marianne Ette." Phoenix tuts. "I told her those heels were too high for her first dance, but no, she said she could handle it. Silly twit." 

The dressing room is bright enough to make Melissa's eyes burn, lit by what seems like hundreds of light bulbs, lining the mirrors and tables on either side. Racks of clothes separate each station, giving the illusion of privacy. Near the end, she starts to hear the low murmurs of people talking. 

Two men are in the last station. The first, his hair hidden beneath a skullcap, make up smeared beneath his eyes, is wrapped in a black velvet robe and has one foot up on a stool that was clearly dragged over from somewhere else. A pair of thigh-high boots, their spiked heels tall enough to make Melissa wince, are abandoned on the floor beside him. 

The other has his back to Melissa, but he's obviously not there to work. He's tall and lithe, with a torso that tapers down from broad shoulders to a narrow waist. His dark hair is buzzed short, exposing the nape of his neck. His shoulders are broad and he looks like he's all lean muscle under the tight black jeans and t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up almost to the elbows. He gestures sharply with his right hand, emphasizing whatever he's saying, and Melissa catches a glimpse of black ink curling around a muscular forearm. Another flick of his wrist exposes the pale line of a scar that's not quite hidden by the tattoo.

"Stiles?" The name is out before she's even quite registered who she's seeing.

He spins around. His eyes light up and his wariness vanishes as soon as he sees her. "Hey," he says, drawing out the vowel as he moves toward her and catches her up in a tight embrace. 

He's taller and stronger than she remembers. They hold on for a second, and Melissa's eyes close, almost against her will.

"You're home," she says, and something inside her relaxes. "You're safe."

"You know me." He shrugs as he lets her go. "The almost invincible human, takes a licking and keeps on ticking. Even the army can't change that." A familiar grin plays at the corners of his mouth but it doesn't erase the shadows in his eyes. 

"I'll be the judge of that," she says. "Come by the house tomorrow and let me look at you." 

"Why not do it now?" He holds out his arms and spins around, almost knocking over the closest clothes rack. "See. I'm looking fine. Nothing to worry about." 

Melissa cocks her head and gives him a quick once-over. "Fine, definitely, but you could be hiding a multitude of sins under those clothes."

His eyes widen, and then he smiles. "No sins," he says, as sincere as only a practiced liar can be. "At least none that you need to worry about." 

A sharp cough makes Melissa jump. She turns and sees Phoenix watching them both closely, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Not to interrupt the reunion," she says, "but Marianne is supposed to go back on in an hour."

Stiles steps back, almost stumbling again as his ass hits the counter behind him. "Moving," he says. "Wouldn't want to get in the way of genius."

"Idiot," Marianne says fondly, shaking his head, then groans an "Ow fuck" as the movement jolts his foot. 

The sound snaps Melissa back to the present. Grabbing a chair from the station across the way, she sits down and puts her bag on the floor. "Tell me what happened?"

Stiles is gone before she's finished, disappearing back into the club after giving Melissa a wave goodbye and Phoenix a quick hug and a promise not to be a stranger. 

At least someone's having fun, she thinks, when she sees him on her way out, leaning up against the bar, talking with a couple of men. She doesn't stop though, just keeps on going until she's home.

*

**2.**

The next night, after a shift that started with a teenager who'd attempted suicide and ended with a woman who wanted them to treat her dog, the headlights of Melissa's car pick out a shadow on her front steps as she turns into her driveway — a shadow with a single point of light. Her heart in her throat, she's putting the car into reverse and getting ready to back up and dial 911, when she recognizes Stiles. 

She slams the car into Park, turns off the engine, and then leans back in her seat and sits there for a few seconds. "Shit," she mutters, as he opens the car door. "You're an idiot. I almost called your dad on you." 

"Sorry," he offers, with a shrug that belies its apparent sincerity. "You said to come by tonight so you could check me out."

Her gaze automatically goes to him, sweeping him from head to foot. He's in his usual jeans, t-shirt, and a hoodie that she's pretty sure she gave him. He takes a step back, so she can get out of the car, and she can see that the point of light is a cell phone. 

He holds it up, showing a text conversation with Scott. "I hadn't figured out how to ask him if you were over there without worrying him. So I got to hear all about Emily's first sentences and first steps and her favorite toy and I don't even know what else. I heard about most of it over email and Skype, but Scott's a bit obsessed."

Unable to resist, Melissa says, "She ate her first real food last week."

"Curly fries!" Stiles gives a little fist pump. "She's gonna be as smart as her godfather, I can tell already."

The front door opens after a little jiggle of the key. "Get the alarm?" Melissa asks, as she drops her bag at the bottom of the stairs and heads up. "I won't be long." 

Normally, after a shift like today's, Melissa would change into pajamas after her shower and then curl up on the couch with a movie and a drink. Stiles has seen her like that hundreds of times. Tonight, though, she finds herself reaching for yoga pants and a loose, long-sleeved top. Instead of continuing to stare at herself in the mirror and wonder what the hell she's thinking, she goes back downstairs. 

Stiles is in the living room. He's got a beer for himself and has poured a glass of wine for her. The stereo is on too low to really hear what he chose. 

"A drink, right?" He scrubs his hand over his buzz cut. "I'm assuming that hasn't changed." 

"Not at all." Following her instincts, Melissa picks up the wineglass and curls up on the other end of the couch from Stiles instead of sitting down in her usual chair. His fingers are playing with the seam of his jeans, but he's less restless than she's ever seen him. She thinks about going to get her bag and giving him a quick physical, but he clearly needs a friend not a nurse. Not sure what else to do, she asks, "Everything okay?" 

Stiles shrugs. "I guess." Then, after a few long seconds of staring into his beer, he says, "You think Dad's ever going to forgive me? I mean, I know I did the right thing, signing up instead of trying to patch together enough scholarships, loans, and part-time jobs to pay for college, but he's still giving me that look. The long-suffering one, like he's not sure how he ended up with a kid like me."

Taking a sip of her wine, Melissa stifles the urge to reach out and touch him. "It's himself, he can't forgive."

Stiles doesn't respond. He just tugs on a loose thread, over and over, until Melissa can't stop herself. She reaches out and puts her hand over his.

"It's not a bad thing," she says. "You're his son — his smart as hell, ridiculously brave son — and he wants to be able to give you the world. Instead, you've had to fight for it since you were a kid."

Slowly, carefully, he turns his hand over, curls his fingers around hers. It's warm, reassuring, and confusing. Melissa can see the same feelings reflected in his eyes. 

"I wasn't a kid," he eventually says. "I hadn't really been one in years."

"Your dad knows that, too."

"Some days, I felt like the oldest person out there. There were guys on their second or even third tour, and they'd seen things, but nothing like here. Bombs and guns, and the damage they could do, weren't new to me. I'd barely flinch when an IED would go off nearby. But swords and arrows, claws and fangs, some of the ridiculous shit we fought, were beyond their imaginations."

His grip tightens on her hand, and she has to hold on because she doesn't want to think about what Stiles has been through, about all the possible ways she could have lost him. The music stops, but neither of them move. Melissa's heart aches for Stiles, for the young man he might have been if he hadn't lived in Beacon Hills, hadn't met her son.

"I didn't re-up. They offered me all sorts of incentives, way more money than I expected, but I'm done with fighting. At least for now." He brings his other hand up and strokes the back of hers. His fingertips are roughened, but his touch is gentle. 

_He's your son's best friend_ , she reminds herself. _He's half your age_.

As if he heard her, Stiles releases her hand. "I'm good," he says, and the smile he gives her is mostly real. "I need a few decades of sleep, and a job, but those are my only complaints." He picks up his beer and stares down into the bottle before asking, "Can I stay here tonight?"

"Of course." Melissa's response is automatic. She's never turned Stiles away, whether Scott was home or not, and she can't imagine ever doing it. 

"Cool." He bounces to his feet. "My bag's out in the car. I should go get it."

"Scott's old room," she calls after him. "It's a guest room now." 

"Okay." 

Melissa stays where she is, listening to him move around the house. He's not as loud as he used to be. His steps are almost silent as he bounds up the stairs. But the sound, the feeling of not being alone, is reassuring. As she finishes her wine, Melissa realizes that she feels more relaxed, safer, with Stiles in the house than she has in a long time. She doesn't say anything, though. She just heads for the stairs and calls out "Good night" as she walks into her room.

*

**3.**

The house feels different when Melissa wakes up. There's music drifting up the stairs and the bitter scent of too-strong coffee twined with something sweet. An image flashes through her mind — of going downstairs and being greeted with a smile and a hug — but she ignores it and gets out of bed. It's Thursday, the beginning of her weekend, and she has things to do. 

Half an hour later, she's showered and dressed in comfortable clothes, her still-damp hair pulled into a loose ponytail. She leaves her feet bare, as always, and opens her door to see Stiles with his hand poised to knock. 

He blinks and looks vaguely taken aback. "Oh, hey. You're up." Then he asks, "Coffee?" He raises his other hand to offer two mugs. "I don't know how some people start the day without it. I really, really don't." 

He pushes one mug into her hand, and she curls her fingers around the warm ceramic automatically. 

Stiles stands there, looking like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt; the picture on his shirt is a comic book hero (or anti-hero) she should probably recognize but doesn't. She's more interested in his arms, in the black lines of ink that wind around his right forearm in a pattern she doesn't recognize, one that almost looks like words but not in any language she knows. 

"Milk, no sugar, right?" 

Stiles' words interrupt her thoughts, drag her attention back to her coffee. Not sure what else to do, she takes a sip. It's close enough to perfect that she hums with appreciation. "Thank you," she says, and then, "You didn't have to. I would have—"

"Oh, I know," Stiles says in a hurry "But I wanted to."

A ding from the kitchen, the familiar sound of the oven timer, interrupts them, and Stiles looks unsure again. "I... umm... well, I found them in the fridge and made them, so I hope you don't mind. But breakfast, right? Everyone needs it." With that, he turns around and heads down the stairs. 

Clutching her mug, Melissa follows more slowly. When she gets to the kitchen, she breathes in deeply. The combined smells of yeast, sugar, and cinnamon make her stomach rumble with hunger. 

"Cinnamon rolls," Stiles says, putting a plate filled with them on the table. "Breakfast of champions." 

"I thought that was Wheaties?"

"Nasty shit." Stiles screws up his face in disgust. "Dry as a bone and tasteless. Fit only for Sheriffs who need to watch their diet and people who don't know any better. You and me, we're smarter than that. Carbs and sugar, that's what the best breakfasts are made of."

Melissa laughs and shakes her head, but she reaches for a cinnamon roll anyway. She doesn't remember buying them, but right now, sitting at her table and watching Stiles eat them with such pleasure, she's glad she did. 

"C'mon," Stiles says. "You know I'm right." He takes an enormous bite and chews with relish, his cheeks rounding out. He swallows once, twice, and then mutters through the last of his mouthful, "A guy on base used to roll them with bacon." His nose wrinkles. "It was really good and really awful at the same time." 

Taking a smaller bite of her own, Melissa tries to imagine adding so much salt to its sweetness but she can't. 

"I wanted it to taste better than it did." Stiles finishes off his roll and then drinks some of his coffee. "But I like them better this way." He takes another one and pulls it apart. Then he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

 _Such long fingers_ , Melissa thinks, transfixed by the sight. He looks up, right into her eyes, and she can feel her face redden. _Say something_ , she tells herself as the silence between them lengthens, but all words evaporate when Stiles licks a smear of icing off the pad of his thumb. 

"S'good," Stiles says, a sly grin on his face. 

"Yes," Melissa manages, her gaze caught by the crumbs on Stiles' lips. She wants to say something, or maybe to gesture at them, make him wipe them away, when his tongue sweeps out and cleans his lips. She clears her throat, tears her gaze away from his mouth to look at her empty mug. "More coffee," she says, standing up. 

It's not much of a reprieve, because Stiles gets up and follows her. He leans against the counter, watching as she fixes herself another cup. 

"Dad's working today," he says. "All through the weekend, actually." He fidgets for a moment, then runs a hand through his hair. They're familiar gestures, telling anyone who knows him that he wants something but is reluctant to ask in case he's turned down.

"Shifts are a pain in the ass," Melissa says. "They never line up with a regular work week." 

"You get the weekend off though." 

"Not every week, and it's only because I'm the senior nurse leader on staff." She leaves her mug on the counter, turns to face him, resting a hip against the counter, and waits for him to say whatever's on his mind.

"When I was a kid, I would have given everything for dad to spend a whole weekend with me. I think he gets that now. He's always working weekends so the deputies with kids can have them off," he says. "It doesn't matter so much to me now, but I'm glad he figured it out." 

He tilts his head and looks at her for a moment. She's seen that expression on his face before, but never aimed at her. It's the one he gets when he's thinking about something, trying to come to a decision. She's so engrossed in trying to work out what it could be that the touch of his finger on her jawline shocks her. 

"What?"

"Crumbs," he says, running his finger gently over her skin. 

Melissa leans into his hand. It's been so long, too long, since anyone touched her like this, and the sensation curls through her. For a moment, as he continues to stroke her face, she considers stopping this, just pulling back and putting distance between them. She takes a deep breath and raises her head so she can look at him. 

"Tell me no," he says, as his hand spreads to cradle her jaw. 

Melissa's breath catches in her throat, her stomach tightens, and she knows exactly what he means. It's not something she's thought about before, not consciously at least, not in daylight, but it's not a surprise either. It's also nothing right now, nothing that would come between them, nothing that would cause any problems, unless she says, "Yes." 

"You have to mean it." 

"Yes." She shifts closer, near enough that she can feel his breath on her lips as he leans down. "Yes," she says again, just before he kisses her. 

He tastes of sweet cinnamon bread and bitter coffee, and she can't help but reach up and wrap her arms around his neck as she parts her mouth. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her against him, and it's good. So very damn good. 

She's aching with need for him when the kiss ends. "Stiles," she says, because she can't come up with the right words for what she feels or what she wants. 

"Melissa," he says, voice rough. "Don't change your mind, not now. Please."

Reaching up, Melissa brushes a hand over his temple, catching the dampness on his lashes. "I won't," she says. 

They kiss again and again, soft brushes of lips followed by filthy, wet slides of tongue and scrapes of teeth. She's pressed against the counter, almost bent backwards as she slips her hands under the back of his t-shirt and then down the back of his too-loose jeans to spread her hands over his ass. His skin is soft, the muscles hard, and when she squeezes, his hips jerk forward to press his dick against her stomach. 

_Too high_ , she thinks, wanting, needing, more than that. 

Stiles obviously agrees because he slides his hands under her ass and picks her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and holds on. 

"Where?" Stiles murmurs and then sucks on the sensitive spot behind her ear. 

"Bedroom." Melissa's voice cracks on the word, as she arches her neck to give him better access. Each step he takes causes the soft cotton of her pants to shift and rubs her clit against his dick. By the time he drops her on top of her unmade bed and crawls on top of her, she's wet and wanting. Her hands tremble as she fumbles the button and zipper of his jeans. 

Then, when she's about to push them down, he puts a hand inside her pants and underwear, and presses a finger against her clit. Her eyes close, her legs fall apart, and her entire body shudders. "Stiles," she whispers, as his finger moves, and she lifts her hips to give him better access. "Please." 

He presses and rubs, slides his fingers down and into her vagina, and then back up again. And again. And again. Until her body is arching into his touch, she's begging and murmuring, holding on, as she comes fast and hard. 

"Beautiful," Stiles says, and he pushes his fingers into her, twists and pulls and pushes. 

Melissa wants him to continue, but she needs more, wants more. So she reaches down, grasps his hand, and holds it there. 

He looks at her, head tilted like a quizzical bird, and then smiles. "Condoms?" 

"Bathroom," Melissa says, "In the medicine cabinet." 

He kisses her before moving away and leaving the room. She lies there for a second, feeling wet and open, and barely satisfied. She trails a finger through the dampness as she pulls her hand out of her pants. Her fingers glisten in the sunlight, and she wipes them against her skin. 

"Found them," Stiles says as he throws a strip of condoms onto the bed next to her. His jeans are open, framing the shape of his dick, long and hard, and curving just enough to send a jolt of need through her. 

She watches as he pushes his jeans and underwear down, no longer clumsy and stumbling, but long-limbed and graceful. His muscles flex as he strips off his shirt and walks toward her. She doesn't see any tattoos, but he has a couple of scars that she doesn't remember seeing before. One is a railroad track of neat stitch-work that decorates his hip. The second is on his shoulder and looks it was once a flesh wound from a bullet that didn't quite miss. 

He stops next to the bed, looking down on her, and asks, "You too?" 

Panic flashes through her, because she's that much older and there isn't enough exercise in the world to make her look as young or firm as him ever again.

"Hey," he says, lying down next to her and cupping a hand around the back of her neck. "It's okay. You're beautiful. You always have been." 

She doesn't stop feeling self-conscious until she's naked in front of him and he's playing with one of her breasts and touching his tongue to her other nipple. He licks and then he sucks, and she stops caring, because... _fuck_. She arches into him and holds on to him. 

She undulates beneath him, twisting her hips so that his dick, hard and leaking, rubs against her leg, and he shakes and moans. She moves, again and again, until his breath is hot against her skin, he's heavy against her side. He's rutting against her, his dick sliding in a trail of precome, and the ache inside her is hot and full and she needs him now.

A gentle push rolls him off and onto his back. He gives her a lost look, almost seeming hurt, and she soothes it by saying, "Condom." 

It takes a second to open the package, but she takes her time after that. She kisses his fingers and the palms of his hands; the taste of herself on him makes her want him even more. To slow things down, to stop herself from crawling on top of him, condom be damned, she traces the tattoo on his arm and the scar it hides with her tongue, continuing up all the way up to his shoulder. 

Running a hand down his chest, she tweaks a nipple and does it again when that pulls a groan from him. He mutters something incomprehensible when she pulls his nipples into peaks and sucks on one. His skin is salty-sweet, pebbled into a nub, and she tastes it again and again, until his mutters turn into sounds that might be her name. 

Then, she gives the hair on his chest a tug and runs her mouth down to the scar that marks the sharp cut of his hip. His dick is hot and heavy against her cheek, as she dips her tongue into his belly button. His legs are spread, and he's pushing up into her touch, murmuring nonsense, as his fingers flex against the sheets. 

She kneels between his legs, runs a hand over the velvet hardness of his dick. Then, before she rolls on the condom, she presses a kiss to the head. He cries at that. His hips jerk upward, pushing into her mouth, and she takes him deep. Just once. Enough to taste him, to feel the weight on her tongue, and against the back of her throat. Then she slides her mouth off his dick and rolls the condom on. 

He reaches for her, twines their fingers together, and tugs lightly, encourages her until she's spread over him. She moves, gets his dick between her legs and rubs herself against it. Each touch is a lightning bolt of need, making her move faster and faster, driving her higher and higher. Then, just as she's ready to come, he rolls them over. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. 

And then he's inside her, deep and full. She arches up, digs her heels into his back just above his ass, and grinds against him. 

"Mel," he murmurs. "Mel. God. Please." 

She reaches for him, pulling him down, so she can feel his weight, so she's being pressed down into the bed with every stroke, every in and every out. He's shaking, murmuring her name, and she's close, so close, when he reaches down between them and circles his thumb over her clit, and then she's pulling him deep, arching, calling out, and feeling his dick pulse deep inside of her even as she comes. 

Afterwards, the condom disposed of, they curl up under the sheets. Stiles sprawls on top of Melissa with his head on her shoulder, and she strokes his hair as he falls asleep.

*

**4.**

Melissa wakes up to the sound of rain. The bed is empty, but Stiles is still there. He's sitting in the chair over by the window, wearing nothing but his underwear. His legs are spread out, and he's staring out the window, biting his lip. 

She gets up and goes into the bathroom. She pulls on her robe, wrapping it around her, before heading back to the bedroom. He's still there, staring at the blinds, lower lip caught between his teeth. He doesn't move until she perches on the arm of the chair. 

"Hi," she says. 

"Hi." He reaches out and brushes her hair back. The gesture is familiar, almost loving, and it contradicts the anxiety in his eyes.

Before she can say anything, he turns toward her and hugs her, pressing his face into the space between her breasts. His embrace becomes almost too tight, almost painful, when Melissa slides her arms around him and drops a kiss on the top of his head. 

"I can leave," he says, voice muffled by her robe. "I won't say anything, not if you don't want me to, but I'm not sorry. So very not sorry we did this. I've wanted..." He stops and takes a shuddering breath. "You," he says. "I've wanted you, and I know that I'm not supposed to. I mean, everyone talks about you and my dad, and I..."

"Hush," Melissa says, caressing the curve of his skull. She slides her hand down and under his chin, gently encouraging him to move back and tilting his head up so she can see his eyes. "What have I told you about what _everyone_ says?" 

He half-laughs and sniffs.

"I chose you," Melissa says, before Stiles can say anything. And when his mouth curves upward, she gives in to the impulse to touch the tip of her tongue to the corner of his mouth, to taste his smile. "I'm not very good with boring."


End file.
